


A Change in Seasons

by Prismattic



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:21:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23946886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prismattic/pseuds/Prismattic
Summary: In the years following the War of Five Kings and the War for the Dawn, the survivors of Westeros must band together to rebuild their lives. But old grudges and new dangers risk tearing apart the fragile peace that the survivors worked so hard to create.
Comments: 16
Kudos: 12





	1. Tyrion I

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: This is post-A Dance With Dragons and Game of Thrones, so beware of SPOILERS for both the books and the TV show. As it's rather tricky to write an epilogue for a book series that's (currently) not finished, I've had to borrow heavily from TV canon. So I'm effectively using Book Canon up to the end of A Dance With Dragons, and then Show Canon for everything past that. I'll be dealing with the various book/show changes as they arise in the story. Most characters will be picking up where they left off at the end of the last episode of Game of Thrones, and moving forward from where the show left off. As always, I own nothing and happy reading!

The noble stared up at Tyrion Lannister, unblinking.

“You’re not the King.”

Tyrion sighed. “Thank you for pointing that out, Lord Mallery. I’m sure it was causing everyone a great deal of confusion.”

Lord Mallery blinked and looked stubbornly up at Tyrion. “I came here to bend the knee to the King.”

Tyrion gestured to the nobles flanking him in the throne room of the Red Keep. To his left sat Lady Commander of the Kingsguard Brienne of Tarth. Beside her sat Lord Davos Seaworth, the new Master of Ships, and beside him was Grand Maester Samwell. To Tyrion’s right was Lord Bronn of the Blackwater, the newly named Master of Coin and Lord Paramount of the Reach. Beside him were the two newest members of the Small Council, named to the council only a week before. Lord Edmure Tully, the new Master of Laws, smiled down at Lord Mallery. Lord Wyman Manderly, the new Master of Whispers, tapped his fingers against the table as he stared down at the lord before him.

“The King is indisposed,” Tyrion replied. “You stand before the entirety of King Brandon’s Small Council, who the King has appointed to pass judgment on his behalf. That should be more than sufficient.”

Lord Mallery frowned. “I travelled a long way. I was told I’d see the King.”

Tyrion sighed. “Let me explain the situation to you, Lord Mallery. You fought for Stannis Baratheon, who rebelled against the Iron Throne. Then you fought for Cersei Lannister, a usurper with no claim to the throne whatsoever. King Brandon acknowledges that if Westeros is to heal from the wounds of the War of Five Kings and the War for the Dawn, we must be willing to move on from the past. Look at the crowd behind you, Lord Mallery. You are far from the only person here today who fought against the crown. However you _are_ the only person here today who is wasting the council’s time.”

Lord Mallery went pink, stammered out an apology, and bowed and retreated. Tyrion was hoping the rest of the lords would prove a little brighter than Lord Mallery.

They weren’t, as it happened. Over the next hour of lords entering the throne room and swearing fealty, Tyrion was asked no fewer than a dozen times what had happened to the Iron Throne, and asked two dozen times where the King was.

“He really should be here for this,” Edmure whispered to Tyrion as Ser Ronnet Connington left the throne room. “Half the lords of Westeros are here to see him.”

Tyrion gritted his teeth. Edmure was right, but now was precisely the wrong time to have that discussion. “The King is your nephew, Lord Edmure,” Tyrion said quietly. “Perhaps you’d have better luck convincing him to attend than I have.”

Tyrion turned back to the lords before him. He had tried three times to convince King Brandon to attend the ceremony, but the King had refused him. Currently the King was precisely where he’d been the last two weeks, praying in the Godswood of the Red Keep, trying to locate the missing Drogon. Tyrion didn’t pretend to understand the full nature of his King’s abilities, but he knew King Brandon was able to see through the eyes of animals, and had visions of the past and future. Tyrion looked up to the ravens perched in a window. Perhaps King Brandon was present in his own way.

However that certainly wasn’t something Tyrion was about to discuss in front of half the lords of Westeros. And so Tyrion refocused his attention on the nobles at hand. And the next noble had approached would no doubt require his full attention.

“Lord Alekyne Florent,” Tyrion called down. “You may approach the council.”

Lord Alekyne stepped forward, flanked by a half dozen unattractive men and women with large ears who could only be family members.

“Thank you, my Lord Hand.” Lord Alekyne knelt before him. “My family fought for King Stannis, and after the Battle of Blackwater were attained. Mace Tyrell always hated us, and after the battle he took our ancestral home of Brightwater Keep and gave it to his second son. But now the Tyrells are dead, and Brightwater Keep stands abandoned. King Brandon decreed that all past grievances be set aside, and so we ask that our home be restored to us.”

“Lord Alekyne is my uncle,” Grand Maester Samwell said. “And he is kin to many others in the Reach.”

“I fought with many in House Florent,” Lord Davos said to the council. “They were loyal to King Stannis, right until the end.”

“It sounds as though that was because they had nowhere else to go.” Bronn looked down at Lord Alekyne with disinterest. “If the Tyrells took his castle, then it seems to me the castle would pass to the new Lord of the Reach.”

Tyrion wasn’t sure he liked the idea of that. Bronn may be one of the most powerful lords in the realm, but he still had the mind of a sellsword. No matter how much wealth he had, he was always eager for more.

“The Tyrells are extinct in the male line,” Tyrion declared. “And King Brandon wishes to set aside the grudges of the past. Lord Alekyne Florent, you will be restored as Lord of Brightwater Keep.” He gestured to Bronn beside him. “I suggest you swear fealty to your new liege lord.”

“My liege,” Lord Alekyne knelt and looked up at Bronn. “House Florent swears fealty now and forever to Lord Bronn of house… beg your pardon, what is your house?”

“Haven’t decided yet,” Bronn said brusquely. “That’s fine, off you go.”

Lord Alekyne bowed again, stammering out a thanks, and gathered up his family to leave. As the Florents departed the throne room, one of them looked to Tyrion and gave him a smile and a wink.

“You’ve got an admirer,” Bronn smirked.

Tyrion ignored the new Lord Paramount of the Reach, and returned to the nobles. When he saw the next pair of nobles approach, he felt a sinking pit in his stomach. These nobles would be… challenging.

“Ser Olyvar Frey and Lady Amerei Frey,” Tyrion said stiffly. “You may approach the council.”

“Th-thank you, my lord,” Olyvar Frey stammered. “We… we’ve come to pledge our fealty.”

“Well look at this,” Lord Wyman stared down at the pair of Freys with a mixture of contempt and curiosity. “Seems the King’s sister missed a few of the weasels. Well, that’s no matter. Give them to me, my lords. I know exactly what to do with them.”

“Thank you for your counsel, Lord Wyman.” Tyrion cleared his throat. “I don’t think that will be necessary.” He’d heard rumors about some of Lord Wyman’s actions at Winterfell and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the truth behind them. Tyrion knew Lord Wyman hadn't been the King's first choice as Master of Whispers. King Brandon had initially made the offer to the daughter of some Crannogman from the Neck named Meera Reed, but she never replied to his letter. Lord Wyman was loyal to the Starks though, there was no doubt about that.

“If I may speak, my lords.” Lord Edmure turned to the council. “I know Ser Olyvar and Lady Amerei.”

“From your months in captivity?” Wyman replied.

“No,” Edmure frowned. “From before then. I fought with Olyvar in the War of Five Kings – he was the Young Wolf’s squire and my own wife’s brother. He wasn’t present for the Red Wedding, Lord Walder had to send him away out of fear for his loyalty. And he always treated me kindly when I was a hostage of the Freys.”

Wyman raised an eyebrow. “And Lady Amerei?”

“Ah,” Edmure flushed red. “Now her I happened to know from well before the War of Five Kings. I was visiting the Twins and Lord Walder had seen fit to slight me by giving me the coldest bedchamber in the castle. Then Lady Amerei showed up late that night and asked if I was feeling cold, and then we-“

“Thank you, Lord Edmure,” Tyrion interjected. Beside him, Bronn was quietly laughing. “If you could get to the point, please?”

“They aren’t bad people,” Edmure insisted. “If we’re forgiving old grudges, then we should forgive them too. The Twins have been torn down and a new bridge is being built between the Riverlands and the Kingdom of the North – a bridge without a toll. House Frey has been destroyed. However as it happens, Olyvar and Amerei are both descendants in the female line of two seats that we haven’t yet filled – Rosby and Darry.”

“Have you lost your mind!?” Lord Wyman interjected. “You would reward the _Freys_ with two castles? How well did that work for us the last time!?”

“They wouldn’t be Freys anymore,” Edmure responded. “Olyvar could take the Rosby name and Amerei could take the Darry name. There’s a Darry bastard cousin she could marry, and the smallfolk would be satisfied to see both houses continue. Nobody remembers the Red Wedding better than I do, my lords. But if we punish innocent people for the crimes of their family members, then we’re no better than King Joffrey or Queen Cersei.”

Tyrion sighed. “Very well. Olyvar and Amerei, kneel and rise as Lord Olyvar Rosby and Lady Amerei Darry. House Frey is extinct, and its treachery dies with it. Lord Edmure has given you a second chance. I advise you to use it.”

“O-of course, my lords.” Olyvar bowed deeply. This was clearly more than he could have ever expected.

“You’re very kind,” Lady Amerei curtsied. “And if my new liege lord ever wants to drop by for a visit, Castle Darry will always be open to him.”

Lord Edmure drank very deeply from his wine goblet, and then immediately became very interested in the parchments in front of him. The former Freys exited the throne room, and another noble approached. As soon as Tyrion saw who it was, he felt his stomach clench.

_Oh, no. Not her. Not now._

Tyrion smiled and beamed down at the newest guests. “Lady Asha Greyjoy, the crown is honored by your presence.”

Asha Greyjoy looked skeptically up at Tyrion. “Honored. Is that why the King couldn’t be troubled to receive me? I’ve sailed around half of Westeros to see him.”

Tyrion smiled. “And the crown thanks you for your time. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“I’m here about a promise,” Asha replied. “A promise that was broken.”

Tyrion winced. He had a feeling it had something to do with that.

“Do you remember when we first met, Lord Tyrion?” Asha asked. “It was in Meereen. You were Hand to a different ruler then. Theon and I showed up and pledged to fight with Queen Daenerys… but as allies, not as subjects. Daenerys Targaryen promised us the freedom we were denied for hundreds of years. I’ve come here to give you the chance to honor that promise.”

The council was silent. They had discussed this matter before, and as it happened this was one of the few times King Brandon had involved himself in the ruling of the realm. And his decision had been final.

“King Brandon wishes to mend and rebuild the realm,” Tyrion sighed. “He does not wish to split it apart. Your agreement regarding the independence of the Iron Islands was with a different ruler.”

“The King seemed more willing to grant independence when it was his sister who asked,” Asha replied.

“That was a different situation,” Tyrion replied, knowing it wasn’t. “There were years of hostility between the North and the South, the North never would have knelt…”

Asha laughed. “Lord Tyrion, you’ve just described every man and woman on the Iron Islands.”

Tyrion rubbed his temples. “I remember your agreement Lady Asha, and I thought you might come asking about it. I asked King Brandon what to do about the Iron Islands. He said he was very… _familiar_ with his history, and that Ironborn raiders had been the terror of the Sunset Sea in centuries past. He was insistent. The Iron Islands will remain a part of the Six Kingdoms.”

“Let me speak to the King.” Asha’s face was like stone, but the response had clearly pained her. “My brother died for Brandon Stark, so let him say that to my face.”

“I’m sorry,” Tyrion replied. Had he really wanted this kind of power once years ago, when his father appointed him acting Hand of the King? Even if the King agreed to see Asha, she wouldn’t get the answer she wanted. Tyrion sometimes wondered how much of Brandon Stark remained in their strange, reclusive ruler.

Without another word, Asha Greyjoy stormed out of the throne room. Tyrion watched her leave with apprehension.

“That one could be a problem,” Bronn whispered to Tyrion. “I have some friends who could take care of that sort of problem, if you like. Boats sink all the time.”

“Absolutely not,” Tyrion responded flatly. Lady Asha’s complaints with the crown weren’t without merit. As far as rulers of the Iron Islands went, Asha Greyjoy was about as good as they could hope for. Her two predecessors had been a proud fool and a complete psychopath, and if she died Tyrion shuddered to imagine who the Ironborn might elect next.

Tyrion refocused his attention on the next lord who stepped forward. “Lord Baelor Hightower, welcome to King’s Landing.”

Baelor Hightower stepped forward in glittering silver armor. The smallfolk called him Baelor Brightsmile, but he was not smiling today. He had a fresh scar across his eye, and he gave the council a wary look.

“Well, it’s the second most powerful lord in the Reach,” Bronn smirked. “Come to pay homage to your new liege lord?”

Baelor Hightower gave Bronn a withering look of contempt. “No, _my lord._ I have come to swear fealty to the King, and to seek his aid.”

“Aid with what?” asked Lady Commander Brienne of Tarth.

“The Dothraki,” Baelor replied. “Since the death of Daenerys Targaryen, they’ve been spilling out across Westeros. They tried to make their way west, but their horses were stopped by the hills and mountains. Then they discovered the Reach. A Dothraki is no match for a knight in mail, but our smallfolk are no knights. They’ve sacked Bitterbridge and Grassy Vale, and plundered their harvests. Now they’re making their way farther into the reach. All of Westeros is recovering from war and winter. The Reach is willing to do its part to feed the realm, but unless the Dothraki hordes are stopped we won’t even be able to feed ourselves.”

Bronn smirked and looked down at Lord Baelor. “I’m saddened to learn that my bannermen can’t seem to defend their own lands. Perhaps I’ll be needing some braver bannermen.”

Not for the first time, Tyrion wondered if Bronn had been the right choice as Lord Paramount of the Reach. He seemed to relish in needling his own subjects, and hadn’t even bothered to name his new house yet.

“This must be dealt with quickly,” Lady Commander Brienne said. “The Dothraki are divided now, but they once followed Queen Daenerys as a united army. Every realm in Westeros has lost soldiers to recent wars. If the Dothraki unify under one leader again, we may not be able to stop them.”

Tyrion remembered the sight of the Dothraki in battle at the Fall of King’s Landing. He didn’t think he would ever forget it.

“They could lead to rebellion as well,” said Lord Wyman. “The smallfolk have lost much in recent years, and would not suffer their lords leaving them to the mercy of the Dothraki. My spies have told me that the Sparrows have started to regroup in the Reach and the Riverlands, and even crowned a new High Sparrow at Stoney Sept.”

Tyrion had no intention of allowing the Sparrows to regain the power that they’d held under King Tommen’s reign. He hadn’t witnessed the madness firsthand, but he’d heard plenty of stories and had no interest in repeating history.

“Lord Baelor, the Crown will not allow the Reach to fall to the Dothraki.” Tyrion gestured to the other members of his Small Council. “Lord Bronn, you will rally your new bannermen and defend the Reach. You will work _with_ them to defend your new lands and protect the realm. And Lord Edmure, you will head to Stoney Sept to meet with this new High Sparrow. You’re known to be popular with the smallfolk. I imagine this new High Sparrow would sooner treat with you than a Lannister.”

“At once, my Lord Hand,” Edmure smiled. “I’m sure the Sparrows and I will be able to come to an agreement.”

“If m’lord commands.” Bronn gave Tyrion an annoyed look. Lord Baelor frowned up at Bronn, thanked Tyrion, and went on his way. Tyrion gave a deep sigh.

_Two armies on our doorstep, and I may well have made an enemy of the most powerful navy in Westeros. Gods be good._

Tyrion looked at the long line of nobles still waiting to see him. It was going to be a long day.


	2. Sansa I

Sansa Stark watched the slow dismantling of the castle before her, and wondered why she didn’t feel any different.

Arya would have enjoyed it. Like as not, she would have been out there with the servants helping to tear the castle apart. But Arya was off sailing the Sunset Sea, and meanwhile here in the North the ancestral home of the Boltons would soon be nothing more than a memory. And yet despite everything that Roose and Ramsay had done, Sansa didn’t feel even the faintest hint of satisfaction.

She saw the dismantling of the Dreadfort as more of a duty than anything else. She was Queen in the North now, and it was her duty to protect her people. And the Starks weren’t the only ones who’d suffered under the Boltons’ reign of terror. She remembered what had happened to Theon, Ser Rodrik, Lady Hornwood… and they were just the victims in living memory. The Starks had allowed the Boltons chance after chance throughout the centuries, taking land or gold or hostages but leaving their enemies strong enough to rise again. That time was over.

Sansa looked around her at the shivering Northern lords. The Bolton line was extinct; dismantling the Dreadfort was more for the Northern lords’ benefit than anything else. The Dreadfort had stood since the Age of Heroes, and once the workers were done it would be nothing but a ruin. The message was clear. The same fate awaited any other lords who would stand against House Stark.

As a girl, Sansa had believed that all the northerners were unshakably loyal to the Starks, but recent years had taught her that wasn’t true. However some lords had proved their loyalty, and their loyalty had been rewarded. The Bolton lands had been divided up among Stark loyalists. A third of them had gone to the newly restored House Hornwood – now ruled by young Beren Hornwood, a nephew to the last Lord Hornwood. A third had gone to Lady Alys Karstark – despite her family’s past actions, Alys herself had fought bravely in the War for the Dawn. And a third had gone directly to House Stark – by strengthening her own position, Sansa could ward off any threats from within the North.

Sansa looked at the lords around her and wondered which of them could be trusted. Her parents and brother had both trusted the wrong men and paid for it with their lives. Littlefinger had told her not to trust anyone, but his approach had left him with no allies when he desperately needed them. Sansa supposed there were lessons to be learned from all of them. She could trust her vassals if she chose to, but her trust would have to be earned.

Ser Wylis Manderly, representing his father on behalf of White Harbor, could be trusted. His family had proven their devotion to House Stark more than once throughout the War of Five Kings. Lady Jorelle Mormont was trustworthy as well – she’d been hidden from the Boltons by Lord Howland Reed, and singers already told tales of how her sister Lyanna had died bravely in the War for the Dawn. Lord Howland Reed himself could be trusted, as could Lady Alys Karstark and Lady Jonelle Cerwyn. Lord Hother Umber, sole survivor of the massacre at Last Hearth, had fought for the Boltons initially but later swore fealty to Jon. He would have to be watched. Ser Robbett Glover had withheld his forces in the War for the Dawn, and Sansa would not forget that. And then there was the woman at the end… Lady Barbrey Dustin.

“Your Grace!” Larence Snow, the bastard of Hornwood, rode up towards her waving from his horse. When he dismounted, Sansa saw he was carrying a heavy cloth bag.

“You asked us to bring you anything interesting that we found in the demolition.” Larence held out the bag. “I’m not sure if you’d find this interesting, but I thought…”

Sansa smiled at the gesture, but her smile faded when she looked into the bag. It looked to be pale wrapping of some kind, old paper perhaps, or…

 _Oh, Gods be good._ Sansa inhaled sharply, and took a step backwards. It was skin. Ancient, by the looks of it.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace.” Larence looked abashed. “Only, we found them displayed in the dungeons and there… there were names.”

“What names?” Sansa asked cautiously.

Larence looked sadly at the contents of the bag. “This was King Eyron Stark. There were half a dozen others.”

 _They were Starks,_ Sansa thought. There was a long silence.

“That’s an old name,” Sansa finally said. They must have kept them for centuries. Dozens of Bolton lords held onto these. Not one ever thought to destroy them.”

“Some sort of mad trophy,” Larence replied. “My father always said the Boltons took too much pride in their legacy, but I never thought…”

“Set them aside,” Sansa commanded. “They’ll be taken back to Winterfell and buried in the crypts. Have you found anything else?”

Larence looked confused. “No, Your Grace.”

Sansa sighed. “Of course. You’ve done well, Larence.”

Sansa walked away from the young man and stood alone in the snow drifts watching the slow dismantling of the Dreadfort. After some time, she heard footsteps behind her. She turned and saw Lady Barbrey Dustin, the Lady of Barrowton approaching.

“Your Grace,” Lady Barbrey gave a small bow. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Not at all,” Sansa replied.

“It’s a pity about the castle,” Barbrey said. “The maesters say it’s thousands of years old. Quite the storied history.”

Sansa stared ahead at the wreckage. “Larence showed me some of that history just now.”

“We have quite the library in Barrowton.” Lady Barbrey gave Sansa a smile that never quite reached her eyes. “And our Great Barrow is said to be the grave of the First King. Your Grace should visit. We have no end of soldiers, you would be well protected.”

Sansa smiled, but sensed the slight. There was no doubt that Lady Barbrey had troops to spare; she had sent as few men as possible south with Robb, abandoned the Boltons as soon as the battle turned against them, and kept her forces at home during the War for the Dawn and the Fall of King’s Landing. Worryingly, Lady Barbrey’s cowardice had paid off. Barrowton had emerged from the wars largely unscathed, and House Dustin was now arguably the second most powerful house in the North.

“Thank you Lady Barbrey,” Sansa replied. “I know my guards will keep me safe. I have Hallis Mollen, Larence Snow…”

“The bastard of Hornwood,” Barbrey Dustin smiled. “The boy fancies you, you know. And he’s hardly alone. Rickard Liddle, Ser Kyle Condon, and even little Lord Hornwood are all half in love with you. You mustn’t blame them, of course. You’re young, clever, beautiful… and the Queen in the North.”

“I am their queen,” Sansa replied. “And I am yours as well.”

“I mean no offense, your Grace,” Barbrey Dustin said in a tone that suggested that was not entirely true. “I was young and in love once myself. But love doesn’t always go the way we hope, as I learned to my sorrow. Your trouble of course is that you’ll never know if they love you… or the crown that wedding you will give them.”

Sansa was about to reply, when she spotted Maester Wolkan racing through the field of snow towards her. Lady Barbrey’s nose wrinkled wen se saw the maester approach.

“Your Grace,” Maester Wolkan panted. “We found something.”

Without a word, Sansa began following Wolkan to the wreckage of the partially destroyed castle. Men were carrying out items wrapped in cloth and laying them in the snow. When Sansa grew closer she immediately recognized what they were.

Sansa ran up to the corpses with Maester Wolkan close behind. They weren’t much more than skeletons now, but she still scanned them carefully for any hint of recognition.

“These were the ones from Winterfell?” Sansa asked.

“I’m so sorry, Your Grace.” Maester Wolkan bowed his head.

Sansa looked at the bodies of her family’s loyal servants as carefully as she could. One was a very old woman, and Sansa gave a soft cry of sorrow when she recognized her as Old Nan. One was a young girl. Had that been little Beth Cassel? She had been Arya’s age. Sansa’s heart ached, and when she thought of Arya it was all she could do to fight back tears.

“A pity,” Lady Barbrey’s voice was like ice. Sansa bristled; she hadn’t noticed the older woman had followed her there. “Though perhaps that’s for the best. Had they lived, they’d have just been massacred in the War for the Dawn, like as not.”

“Not like your servants,” Sansa stared at the castle instead of at the Lady of Barrowton. “Not like you. You never made it to the battlefield.”

Lady Dustin looked offended, but Sansa didn’t believe her for a moment. “Barrowton is a large town, Your Grace. I couldn’t leave my smallfolk undefended and at the mercy of the White Walkers. Fortunately it all worked out for the best. You and your siblings fought off those horrible creatures, and you still have a powerful ally in the forces of Barrowton.”

“As did Roose Bolton,” Sansa replied coldly. “You may have sat out the War for the Dawn, but you served the Boltons well. Even after Lord Roose was murdered by his son, House Dustin kept faith with Ramsay right up until the end.”

Lady Dustin grew visibly uncomfortable. “I knew Roose Bolton Your Grace, I won’t deny that. His second wife was my own sister, and I was always fond of their boy Domeric. My Willam died down in Dorne, and I never knew any children of my own. Ramsay though… Ramsay was a monster. He killed Domeric, like as not.”

“And yet you followed him,” Sansa replied. “You fought for him. I remember the Battle of the Bastards, and you flew your Dustin banners behind the man who murdered your nephew.”

Barbrey’s face had gone cold, there was no pretense of warmth and respect now. “The laws of succession are clear, Your Grace. I had sworn allegiance to House Bolton, and Ramsay was its sole living member. I had no choice. I would think you might sympathize, given your own succession troubles.”

Sansa was silent, and Lady Barbrey continued.

“Your only trueborn brother has already taken the throne in the South and could not sire heirs even if he wished to. Your bastard brother gave up the crown of winter to swear fealty to a tyrant, murdered that tyrant, and fled to the Night’s Watch… or was it north of the Wall? I confess I’ve lost track. Your only heir is your sister and… well… the maesters tell me that very few return from sailing the Sunset Sea. How many weeks has it been without a letter now?”

“That is enough.” Sansa stepped forward. “I am not blind Lady Barbrey, and you are not half as clever as you think you are. I know why you hate me, and it has little and less to do with House Bolton.”

“Is that so?” Lady Barbrey gave Sansa a look of curiosity.

“When I was a child I thought you hated my mother,” Sansa replied. “Even as a child of ten I knew you loathed your visits to Winterfell. But now that I reflect, you misliked my father as well. You served Robb unfaithfully, and turned against Jon and I to serve the Boltons. You don’t hate me after all. You hate my family.”

Lady Barbrey’s face turned into a snarl. “I do not have to be lectured by a child-“

“Your Queen has not given you leave to speak.” Sansa stepped closer, until she and Barbrey were close enough to touch. “Perhaps you blame my family for your husband’s death. Perhaps there is some truth to the rumours about you and my uncle. I do not care what your reasons are for hating House Stark. However I urge you to remember that you serve as Lady of Barrowton at the pleasure of House Stark. So consider your options carefully, for right now your service does not please me.”

Barbrey’s face went white. “I am a Dustin of Barrowton-“

“You are a Dustin by marriage only, and your husband has been dead these last twenty years. My father allowed you to rule as Lady of Barrowton as a courtesy to honor your husband’s sacrifice. Should you prove troublesome, I am sure I can find some younger Dustin heirs who would prove more agreeable.”

Barbrey Dustin’s face had gone grey. “My Lady, if I have given offense-“

“Your Grace,” Sansa corrected her. “Remember where you are, Lady Dustin. You would never have been named Lady of Barrowton if not for the Starks. Your tiresome town would have been overrun by an army of the dead if not for the Starks. And now Lady Dustin, I urge you to look at the ruins before you and see what happens to houses that rise against the Starks.”

Barbrey Dustin had no reply. Sansa turned away from the Lady of Barrowton and began walking back to the crowd. She turned to the half-ruined castle before her and continued to watch, flanked by Alys Karstark and Hother Umber, who watched the destruction with faint horror.

Sansa thought perhaps she might enjoy the demolition of the Dreadfort after all.


	3. Brienne I

Brienne stared at the six Kingsguard standing before her. Six months into her tenure as Lady Commander of the Kingsguard, she still wasn’t sure what to make of most of them.

When King Brandon had asked her to serve as Lady Commander of the Kingsguard, Brienne had been honoured. She had served several members of his family throughout the War of Five Kings, and it would be a chance to continue to uphold the oath she had made to Lady Catelyn. Growing up she had always dreamed of becoming a knight but never truly believed it could happen, and now she was one of the most famous knights in the Six Kingdoms.

However Brienne quickly learned there was more to her new role than the stories told. Nobody ever told stories of Ser Duncan the Tall and Ser Barristan the Bold’s daily Small Council meetings. The meetings were honestly not the worst part of her new role – Brienne at least got along well with most of the council, and she knew she was helping to put Westeros back together. The thing she really disliked was the minutiae of daily politics… things like deciding who would be Acting Lord Commander while she was away in battle commanding King Brandon’s army. And now her six Kingsguard were before her, awaiting her decision.

Brienne looked at each of her Kingsguard in turn. The turnover in Kingsguard throughout the recent years meant that the institution had fallen far below the reputation they’d held in King Aerys’ day as the greatest knights in the realm. And her current knights… well, she wasn’t sure what to make of them yet.

The first knight near her had made a poor first impression. Ser Hobber Redwyne had a shock of bright red hair and a sour look on his face. Brienne hadn’t been impressed by him in the training yard, and knew he had been a political appointment to keep the Redwynes happy. If his father weren’t Lord of the Arbor, he never would have made the Kingsguard.

Ser Daemon Sand, the Bastard of Godsgrace, was another matter. He had earned a place in the Dornish court as a teenager and had proved himself in several battles. He was young as well, in the prime of his life. However that may have weighed against him… Ser Daemon could be prickly, too quick to see offense. And there were rumors of him frequenting brothels in Flea Bottom. They were only rumors, but there was still an air of mistrust about him.

The largest knight was Ser Lyle Crakehall, called Strongboar. He was the tallest of the Kingsguard, and built like an aurochs. Out of all the knights there, Brienne thought he might be the only one who could truthfully rival her in combat. Strongboar seemed friendly, but he was lacking in courtesy. Brienne had known plenty of knights when serving King Renly who had been kind to her face but showed a much different side when her back was turned. And she was the Strongboard’s commander..,

Ser Ellery Vance was a pleasant enough man, though his skill in battle had never been anything more than adequate. He had been a friend of Lord Edmure, and appointed at his suggestion. He did his duty faithfully, if unremarkably. Still, there were worst choices in an Acting Lord Commander…

Ser Lyn Corbray was the oldest of the Kingsguard at past forty, but his skill in battle hadn’t faded. He was an experienced warrior – he’d first earned a reputation in Robert’s Rebellion when Brienne was just a child. He was always polite to Brienne, and he was the only other Kingsguard to wield a blade of Valyrian Steel. Brienne had seen Lady Forlorn in battle, and it was an impressive sight.

And lastly there was Podrick. Ser Podrick Payne – Brienne’s squire turned knight of the Kingsguard. He still had a few spots of acne on his face, and looked at the other knights as though he was certain one of them would try to kill him. He was brave though – he’d saved her life in battle, and she’d heard the stories of how he’d saved Lord Tyrion as well. And Brienne thought of the Kingsguard… what they had once been, and what she hoped to transform them back into.

“So have you reached a decision?” asked Lyn Corbray. “Who’ll be commanding while you’re away?”

“I have,” said Brienne. “Ser Podrick Payne will be acting Lord Commander of the Kingsguard until I return from battle.”

Pod went beet red and began stammering out a reply. “M-m-m-my Lady Commander, I don’t… I can’t…”

Brienne approached him and patted him on the shoulder. “You’ll be fine. His Grace rarely leaves the Godswood. You’ll spend most of your time organizing guard schedules.”

Podrick looked up at Brienne and shakily nodded. “I’ll… I’ll do my best.”

“I know you will,” Brienne replied. The rest of the Kingsguard’s expressions ranged from surprised to hostile, but Brienne ignored them. She had more pressing things to worry about than the displeasure of the Kingsguard. The following morning she would be departing to lead King Brandon’s army to defeat the Dothraki and clear them out of the Reach, and she had to make sure her men were ready.

Brienne worked through the night speaking with various knights who would be accompanying her. She inspected the baggage wagons, practiced some training privately, and met with several lords to discuss their plans of attack. Finally she retired to her quarters for a couple hours of rest, only to wake early the following morning to prepare the army for departure.

As Brienne rode through the city, past the ruins of the Great Sept of Baelor and out the Dragon Gate followed by five thousand knights of the Crownlands, the citizens of King’s Landing let out a cheer. Brienne tried to focus on her plans for the battle ahead, but couldn’t help but take a moment and allow herself to feel a sense of pride. The crowds were cheering her name on as she went off heading the King’s army. Even a few years ago she never could have imagined that happening.

Half a mile outside King’s Landing, Brienne heard a voice calling her name. She looked back, expecting to see one of her knights, only to wrinkle her nose in distaste. Her fellow battle commander, Lord Bronn of the Blackwater, had finally arrived.

“Lady Brienne!” Bronn grinned. “That was a fine surprise – taking away a man’s army while he’s sleeping.”

“Ser Lyle informed me you were passed out drunk at a tavern in Flea Bottom,” Brienne said flatly. “I assumed you would be able to follow the army – it’s rather difficult to miss. You should be grateful King Brandon didn’t come out to witness the departure. He might have wondered where his Master of Coin and Lord Paramount of the Reach was.”

Bronn smirked. “Then it’s a good thing you knew exactly where the Master of Coin and Lord Paramount of the Reach was, and could have told him.”

Brienne chose to ignore that. “When are your bannermen expected to join us? His Grace has committed as many troops as he can, but we’ll need the power of the Reach if we’re to defeat the Dothraki.”

Bronn smiled, showing rotted teeth. “Thank you, Lady Brienne, it’s always a pleasant reminder that I own the largest army in the Six Kingdoms. And unlike that oaf Mace Tyrell, I have the brains to use it.”

“Mace Tyrell at least did not mention it at every given opportunity,” Brienne said flatly.

Bronn waved his hand dismissively. “I know your kind, Lady Brienne. You don’t like me because I wasn’t born with the right name and a thousand years of family history. Well, you lot may have had the good fortune to be born to privilege, but at least I can say I’ve earned my title.”

“As I recall, you earned that title by sticking a crossbow in the Hand of the King’s face.”

Bronn’s face darkened. “However I earned it, it’s mine. I command a hundred thousand men, Lady Brienne. You command six.”

“Some of the greatest Kingsguard in the history of the Seven Kingdoms were born bastards in Flea Bottom,” Brienne replied. “I don’t judge a man based on his last name Lord Bronn, I judge him based on his merit. So if I’m rude to you, it’s not because you were born a member of the smallfolk. It’s because I simply do not like you.”

Bronn gave Brienne a dark look. “To answer your question, my lords bannermen will be joining us within a fortnight. All hundred thousand of them.” He turned and walked away.

As the army marched over the next several days, Brienne tried to avoid Lord Bronn of the Blackwater as much as possible. The army marched through Tumbleton and Bitterbridge, making good time. Finally one night, while camped outside Longtable, a scout came to Brienne and informed her that the knights of the Reach were approaching.

Brienne rode towards the front of the camp, and looked ahead at the massive horde of knights before her. She felt a pang of sorrow as she recognized some sigils from her time serving King Renly. Three lords rode forward and Brienne recognized their banners at once. A fox and flowers, a tall white tower, and a burgundy grape cluster. These could only be Lord Alekyne Florent, Lord Baelor Hightower and Lord Paxter Redwyne.

“Lady Brienne!” Baelor Hightower smiled at her, the picture of courtesy. “An honour to be met by the first ever Lady Commander of the Kingsguard.”

“Thank you Lord Hightower,” Brienne said cautiously. She still found herself suspicious of praise by people she didn’t know.

“My daughter won’t stop talking about it,” Baelor smiled. “Brienne of Tarth, that’s all I hear about from her. She’s even started training with our master at arms – she wants to become Kingsguard one day too!”

Brienne was taken aback for a moment, and then gave Baelor a small smile. “I’m very honoured to hear that.”

“Speaking of children, how is my son taking to the Kingsguard?” asked Paxter Redwyne. “The next Arthur Dayne, no doubt?”

“Your son is… most skilled,” Brienne replied. She chose not to mention that Hobber Redwyne’s greatest skills appeared to be drinking and feasting. “King Brandon is fortunate to have him.”

“Not nearly as fortunate as you all are to have me.” The familiar voice of Bronn caused Brienne to sigh.

“My Lord Paramount,” Baelor Hightower gave a stiff bow. His smile had vanished.

“Indeed I am,” said Bronn. “Lord Paramount of the Reach, and here you lot with all your storied histories have to do whatever I command. Why, if I told you all to kill Lord Florent here, you’d have to do it.”

Alekyne Florent went pale. “My Lord, I don’t-“

“Calm down Florent, I didn’t tell them to do it. Yet. Though from what I’ve seen of that wife of yours, I may have to think it over. Perhaps it’d be a mercy.”

“We have urgent matters to discuss,” Brienne interjected. “Thank you for coming so quickly, my lords. Our scouts tell us that the Dothraki have been spotted heading up the Blueburn river towards Grassy Vale. They aren’t familiar with Westeros, and we can take advantage of that.”

“How, by sending them off to raid the Starks?” Bronn smirked.

Brienne ignored him. “The Dothraki will be following the river to raid any coastal villages they find, but they loathe crossing water. We can predict their movement. If we attack from the south, we can use the river to trap them. They haven’t much experience fighting knights of the Six Kingdoms, and they took heavy casualties at Winterfell.”

“How do you know that?” Bronn asked.

Brienne looked at him with contempt. “Because I fought at Winterfell.” She bowed to the three lords of the Reach, turned and rode away. Not terribly eager to remain with Bronn, the three lords rode after her.

Her experience working with Lord Bronn of the Blackwater did not improve over the next week. They had to see each other daily now, as they spent hours each day planning for the upcoming battle. At the very least Lords Redwyne, Florent and Hightower were cordial to her. The three lords were all in agreement that Bronn was an upjumped sellsword, and the new Lord Paramount of the Reach seemed determined to prove this notion correct. Brienne didn’t see how needling his new bannermen would make Bronn’s job of ruling them any easier, but she had no interest in getting involved.

After less than a week’s ride, they found the Dothraki camped a day from Grassy Vale. Most of the hamlets they passed had been decimated. A handful of smallfolk and petty lords could never stand a chance against a Dothraki Khalasar. Now Brienne sat mounted in gleaming blue armor, with her pale white cloak billowing in the wind. She saw the massive camp of Dothraki below her. The Dothraki numbers had dwindled from their many battles under Queen Daenerys. They weren’t nearly as strong as they’d been… but still undeniably a grave threat to the realm.

The battle itself would be quick and with as few casualties as possible. Brienne would sooner have not fought at all, but the first envoy Tyrion sent to the Dothraki had been gelded and had his tongue cut out. The Dothraki hadn’t followed Daenerys Targaryen because of her lineage or her wealth, they only followed her strength. So if the Iron Throne wanted to negotiate with the Dothraki, winning a quick and decisive battle against them was the best way to do that.

“Lady Brienne,” Bronn’s voice echoed behind her. “Beautiful morning for a war!”

“This won’t be a war,” Brienne responded curtly. “The Dothraki are refusing to negotiate and are raiding the Reach. Perhaps it’s bold to assume that’s a concern of yours.”

Bronn looked offended. “Of course it’s a concern of mine. However much you may doubt it, I’m just as loyal to the King as you are.”

Brienne looked at Bronn in distaste. “You are loyal to whichever side will pay you the most.”

Bronn nodded. “You’re not wrong. But your side has made me Lord of the Reach and Master of Coin. Who could offer more than that? Tyrion understood that, you know – I’m the truest friend he has, because nobody pays better than him.”

“That’s very reassuring,” Brienne replied, staring ahead at the Dothraki.

“It should be. But I can’t say the same for the rest of the lords.”

Brienne looked at Bronn sharply. “What do you mean by that?”

Bronn shrugged. “Well, I’m loyal to the end, to be sure. But what about your other lords? The Ironborn were promised independence and then denied it, and they’ve rebelled against the throne twice in living memory. Tyrion may be a fine Hand of the King, but he’s hated by half the Westerlands for what he did to his father. And if half of what I hear about that new Prince of Dorne is true, we shouldn’t count on his loyalty either.”

“The Iron Throne has held the realm together for hundreds of years,” Brienne replied.

“There isn’t an Iron Throne anymore,” said Bronn. “The Targaryens could barely keep the realm from tearing apart, and they had dragons. We don’t have any Targaryens and we certainly don’t have any dragons. All we have is our crippled child king, who’s more interested in staring at ravens than ruling the realm.”

“I will not stand here and allow you to insult the King-“ Brienne said.

“I’m trying to help him,” Bronn replied. “I lose everything I’ve earned if the realm tears itself apart. And it’s already started. His Grace giving the North independence was a mistake. It shows weakness, and that’s the last thing we can afford right now.”

“That was King Brandon’s decision,” Brienne replied. “And it isn’t easily undone. It isn’t as though we can invade the North now and make them our vassals again, that would mean making war on His Grace’s sister.”

“That’s right,” Bronn said. “We can’t do that. But what we can do is keep an eye out for any threats to us, and take them out before they have the chance to collapse our regime just like the Baratheons or Targaryens.” His eyes flickered as he watched something behind Brienne.

Brienne heard cries, and she suddenly turned back to the Dothraki. They were moving. They were mounting horses, drawing weapons, and racing towards a suddenly visible group of scattering and confused soldiers.

“What’s happening!?” Brienne demanded. “Those are our soldiers they’re engaging. What are they doing out there!? I didn’t give the command to attack!”

“No you didn’t,” Bronn replied. “I did. They’re my bannermen, after all.”

Brienne scanned the battlefield and could very faintly make out gray and white banners. “Are those… Hightower knights?”

“Oh yes,” Bronn replied. “And Florents, and Redwynes. My weaker bannermen are positioned nearby for an ambush, but I thought a nice diversion of all my strongest possible rivals would help to make sure the Dothraki go exactly where we want them to. And if I can weaken a few troublesome bannermen – or better yet, get rid of them – then all the better.”

Brienne was white with shock. “The Hightowers, Florents and Redwynes are men of the Reach. They are your bannermen, and you are sworn to defend them!”

Bronn shrugged. “Defending them didn’t work out well for the Tyrells. I’m going to do things differently. Maybe if your beloved Lady Catelyn had thought to do this to Walder Frey, she’d still be alive.”

Brienne heard below her the screams of the soldiers, and began racing away from Bronn. She ran through the camp until she reached the nearest battle commander she could find, shouting commands. The battle was already in complete disarray.

“Get everyone ready!” Brienne shouted. “The Dothraki are already attacking! They’re going to decimate those knights if we don’t move now!”

As her men began to get into formation and prepare to engage the Dothraki, Brienne of Tarth spared a moment to look back at Bronn. The Lord Paramount of the Reach was watching her with a smirk on his face while his bannermen died below him. Brienne turned her thoughts back to the battle. In her travels throughout the War of Five Kings she had met many people just like Lord Bronn of the Blackwater.

And if it came to it, she knew exactly what to do with them.


	4. Edmure I

Edmure Tully looked out at the village of Tumbler’s Falls before him. The town had first been sacked by Tywin Lannister in the War of Five Kings, and then decimated by some northmen months later when they were trying to track down the escaped Jaime Lannister. Half the buildings were burned but the smallfolk had already started rebuilding and planting new crops. It would be a long time before Tumbler’s Falls was restored, but they had been making excellent progress.

“Look at how far they’ve already come.” Edmure turned back to Jonos Bracken, who was keeping pace beside him. “It’s encouraging, isn’t it?”

Lord Jonos nodded. “The Riverlands have born the brunt of wars for centuries, and always survived. We’ll survive this one too.”

Edmure supposed that the change in seasons had something to do with that as well. Since the battle at Winterfell, seasons that had once lasted years were now shorter and shorter. A few months ago it had been the harshest winter of Edmure’s life, and already the snows had melted, summer had come, and now they were in the midst of autumn. Grand Maester Samwell had told him that would do wonders for crop growth and Edmure could already see the results.

“Let’s stop to help them,” Edmure said. He gestured back to his army. “The Sparrows aren’t going anywhere, and we have the men to lend a hand.”

Jonos Bracken looked anxious. “My Lord, if we don’t hurry the Sparrows may know that we’re coming.”

“Let them,” said Edmure. “We aren’t coming to fight this new High Sparrow, we’re coming to talk to him.”

Jonos Bracken looked worried, but headed back to command the army to stop. The soldiers entered Tumbler’s Falls and Edmure greeted the smallfolk living there. Surprised and grateful for the assistance, the landed knight in charge of the town showed Edmure and his men where they could work. As Edmure chopped down trees and helped to move logs, the sun beat down on him. Then he was aware of Jonos Bracken watching him.

“Is something the matter, Lord Jonos?” asked Edmure.

Jonos looked pained. “It’s only… I had hoped to speak with you privately, my lord. When you get the chance.”

Edmure looked around the field at the busy workers. “Nobody seems to be listening right now.”

“Very well,” Jonos cleared his throat. “I wanted to… apologize. To you, personally.”

Edmure looked confused. “Whatever for?”

“I bent the knee to the Freys,” Jonos looked at the ground. “I was the first Riverlord to do it.”

Edmure remained silent.

“I fought for the Young Wolf as loyally as any man,” Jonos continued. “You saw it yourself. I nearly lost an arm in the Whispering Wood. The Lannisters killed my nephew, and my bastard son too. The Mountain raped one of my daughters, and Stone Hedge is a ruin. I know that arrogant fool Blackwood refused to yield and Jason Mallister too, but when the Lannisters wrote demanding fealty I… I had already lost so much…”

Edmure looked at him with a mixture of pity and reservation.

“Lord Janos, were you at the Siege of Riverrun?”

Jonos Bracken looked confused. “No, my lord.”

“I was,” said Edmure. “Every day Ryman Frey took me to the gallows and threatened to hang me unless I yielded the castle. Every day I refused. I was sure my life was forfeit anyway, and I wouldn’t betray my uncle or the men inside who were loyal to the Young Wolf’s memory. Then one day the Kingslayer arrived, and told me once again to yield the castle. I refused. Then he threatened to send the Riverlords who had yielded to assault the castle. Brothers would be killing each other. Robert wasn’t born yet at the time. The Kingslayer threatened to send him to me with a trebuchet.”

Jonos Bracken stared at Edmure in shock. Edmure continued speaking.

“I know your pain, Lord Janos. Nobody who fought in the War of Five Kings can be proud of everything they did in it. But I became King Brandon’s new Master of Laws because I want to help put the realm back together. And I need loyal vassals to help me do that. Can I count on you, Lord Janos?”

Janos bowed his head. “Of course you can, my lord.”

Edmure smiled. “I’m very glad to hear it. Is there anything else?”

Jonos Bracken hesitated. “Well… there is one other matter.”

“Tell me,” said Edmure.

“You’re right that nobody in the War of Five Kings can be proud of all they did. Many of us were placed in difficult situations, where we did things we didn’t want to do. And I was speaking with Norbert Vance and Clement Piper and we all thought that… well… you had been placed in such a situation yourself. Regarding your marriage.”

“My marriage?” Edmure replied flatly.

“Yes, my lord. The Red Wedding will be rightly remembered as an atrocity for hundreds of years. Every Riverlord lost family there. The Twins have been dismantled, and we must all try to move on as best we can. However that does remain difficult when one considers… well, the Lady of Riverrun.”

“Lady Roslin,” Edmure replied. “The mother of my son.”

“Roslin Frey,” Lord Bracken emphasized. “The mother of the future Lord of Riverrun is a member of the family that betrayed us all and murdered our king. She’s the daughter of the man behind the Red Wedding.”

“Did you imagine I’d forgotten that, Lord Janos?” asked Edmure. His tone had grown icy cold.

“Of course not, my lord. All I mean to say is that there may be other solutions available to you. The king is your nephew – perhaps you could speak with him about annulling the marriage? Or perhaps the High Septon would help us. I’m sure he’d be willing, what with us helping him with the Sparrows. And once that unpleasantness is dealt with, there are any number of daughters of proper loyal Riverlords who’d make fine ladies of Riverrun. I myself have several daughters-”

“That’s enough, Lord Janos.” Edmure’s smile was gone. “I forgave your mistakes from the War of Five Kings. But I would advise you to tread very carefully, because it seems you are about to make a mistake that I wouldn’t be inclined to forgive at all. Roslin is my wife. She is the mother of my son. Walder Frey is dead, his sons are dead, and his castles are destroyed. Roslin bears no blame for any of their actions. The Riverlands are moving on from the horrors of the War of Five Kings, Lord Jonos. I advise you to do the same.”

“My lord, I did not mean-“

“You meant what you said. You also mentioned Stone Hedge needs rebuilding. Perhaps you should return there.” Edmure Tully turned away, and went to help some men who were moving a fallen tree.

The following morning, Edmure was pleased to learn that Lord Bracken had taken him up on his offer, and left for Stone Hedge. The rest of the journey passed largely without incident. A day before reaching Stoney Sept the army was met by a smaller force from King’s Landing – a force of seven septons, a hundred men at arms, and the new High Septon, chosen by the grace of the Most Devout.

Edmure had already known this High Septon from his time in King’s Landing – back when he went by Septon Ollidor. Septon Ollidor didn’t have the best reputation – he had been rumoured to drink to excess and frequent brothels. Edmure tried not to judge – he’d certainly done both of those in his time – but then Edmure wasn’t about to be crowned High Septon.

However the new High Septon wouldn’t really be officially designated as such until the new High Sparrow was deposed. The first High Sparrow had been crowned by a horde of angry smallfolk, and now thousands from across the realms were flocking to this new one. The last thing the realm needed was a new High Sparrow, and Edmure meant to set things right.

The army camped for the night, and approached Stoney Sept the following morning. Edmure hadn’t thought the town would be easy to fortify, but as he approached he noticed the sheer number of pious smallfolk crowding the town walls left it well protected.

“My lord, you cannot mean to reason with these sparrows.” Septon Ollidor – or the High Septon now – approached Edmure. “They have taken up arms against their own faith. I am the voice of the Seven, and they have elected some illiterate oaf to oppose me!”

“They want their voices heard,” said Edmure. “I mean to listen to them.” He left the High Septon and rode towards the town gates, calling up to the guards at the gate. They were dressed in simple rags adorned with images of the Seven. Edmure tried to ignore the crossbows they were wielding.

“I am Edmure Tully, Lord of Riverrun, Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, and Master of Laws to King Brandon Stark.” Edmure waved up at the guards. “I’ve come to speak with your High Sparrow.”

“Have you come to seek forgiveness in the eyes of the Seven?” a guard called back. “The High Septon welcomes all sinners seeking forgiveness.”

Edmure blinked, and looked up at the guard. “I’ve come to negotiate, really.”

The guard peered down skeptically. “You may enter. None of your guards may join us.”

Reluctantly, Edmure nodded. He’d been a captive for much of the first High Sparrow’s reign, but he’d heard how the Sparrow nearly brought down the Lannister regime. He wasn’t sure what to be prepared for concerning this new one. But he followed the guards into Stoney Sept, past crowds of smallfolk who’d gathered in the town. In all likelihood they were survivors of the War of Five Kings whose homed had been destroyed in the war. Septons in threadbare robes preached to them… or perhaps they were just begging brothers. Edmure followed the guards to the town’s namesake sept, an old building seated on a hill. They gestured for him to enter. Cautiously, Edmure walked inside.

The sept itself was modest. It had clearly been raided by brigands, and what little furniture remained was old and damaged. A single man occupied the sept. He was a tall, grey haired man in faded septon robes with a windburned face and a slight hunch. His feet were bare and clearly weathered.

“My brothers tell me you were looking for me,” said the septon.

Edmure blinked in surprise. “You’re the new High Sparrow?”

The septon nodded. “Men call me that. It was never a name I sought out. Always seemed to me to be a name that belonged to someone else.”

Edmure frowned. “The old High Sparrow was an enemy to the king at the time. I’m sure you understand King Brandon’s concern that you’ve taken up the name.”

The High Sparrow shrugged. “Smallfolk across the Seven Kingdoms loved the old High Sparrow. He and many of his followers died in that explosion, but many more survived and scattered to the wind. But they never lost faith. In time they found others who still had faith, and then they went looking for someone new to lead them. Much to my surprise, they settled on me.”

“Humility is a virtue,” Edmure said. “The old High Sparrow had humility as well, right up until he made Queen Cersei walk naked from the Great Sept of Baelor to the Red Keep.”

The Sparrow’s mouth wrinkled. “I had heard about that. That strikes me as… distasteful. Queen Cersei may have committed many sins, but the Mother teaches us mercy, even for our enemies.”

“Mercy,” Edmure repeated. “You speak as though you’re planning to pass judgement. I’m sure you know that’s why I’ve come here today. Are you planning to restore the Faith Militant?”

The discussion was interrupted by a loud bark. Edmure jumped and turned to see a large, shaggy dog emerge from another room. The dog approached the Sparrow, who patted his head.

“He’s friendly,” the Sparrow gave Edmure a small smile.

Edmure regarded the dog warily, not wanting to be distracted during the negotiation. “Does he have a name?”

“I imagine he does, but I don’t know what it is. I simply call him Dog.”

“Well I suppose that’s fitting,” Edmure said. “Neither of you having a name.”

The Sparrow blinked. “I told you I was given this title of High Sparrow. I didn’t ask for it. Of course I have a name – I was born with one just as you were. My name is Meribald.”

Edmureu wasn’t going to allow the Sparrow to distract him any further. “Meribald, are you planning to rebuild the Faith Militant?”

“I don’t know,” the Sparrow answered bluntly. “I can tell that’s not the answer you’re looking for Lord Edmure, but I’m sorry to tell you it’s the truth. The Faith Militant was reformed by my predecessor because the lords of Westeros abandoned us. Towns were being sacked, and smallfolk were being raped and murdered. The Riverlands was decimated, as I’m sure you know better than most.”

Edmure’s face looked pained. “I know.”

“The Faith Militant came about because it was needed,” the Sparrow answered. “The lords of Westeros were too busy playing their games to protect the faithful, so the faithful protected themselves. My question to you Lord Edmure is if that neglect will continue. Will the crown protect the faithful as it did before the War of Five Kings? Because as long as it doesn’t, the Faith Militant will remain – whether led by me or by somebody else.”

Edmure nodded. “Recent rulers have failed in their duty to protect their smallfolk. King Joffrey, King Tommen, Queen Cersei… their reigns are done. That isn’t the kind of ruler King Brandon wants to be. It isn’t the kind of ruler I want to be.”

The High Sparrow regarded Edmure with a smile. “I thought that might be the case. The Riverlands are my home, as it happens. I wandered the Riverlands for decades, and I saw the kind of ruler your father was. We were all safe under him. I hear that you are a good man as well Lord Edmure, and I am inclined to trust you.”

Edmure smiled. “I am glad to hear it.”

“I have heard that you have a penchant for vices, however.”

Edmure started coughing. “That… is not relevant to this negotiation.”

The Sparrow smiled. “I suppose not. So now the question is what we’re going to do. As I understand it, you have another High Septon waiting outside these walls. I imagine two High Septons would cause the realm much confusion.”

Edmure remembered the crowds outside the sept, and looked at the elderly, disheveled septon before him.

“The Hand of the King has given me leave to resolve this matter as I see fit. I do not think you are a threat to the realm. Furthermore, the recent wars have shown to us the need for change in the Six Kingdoms. King Brandon was elected by a council, not appointed by divine right. I see no reason why the same sort of policy should not be applied to the office of High Septon.”

The Sparrow frowned. “I can assure you the Most Devout did not elect me to the office of High Septon, and I sincerely doubt they ever would.”

Edmure waved his hand dismissively. “The Most Devout are a group of tired, fat old men. I’ve seen more devotion in a brothel. I don’t see the Most Devout visiting sacked villages or helping widows and orphans from the war. The last High Septon earned his position with the support of the people. Whatever else he did, he put the needs of the smallfolk first. I see no reason not to continue the tradition.”

The High Sparrow looked cautious. “I should mention that the previous High Sparrow was appointed when an angry mob attacked the Most Devout…”

“Well we certainly won’t do that,” said Edmure quickly. “We’ll hold an election, just as we did for King Brandon. Every septon from across the Six Kingdoms can come to vote for the next High Septon. And from what I’ve heard from you today, I think you’re guaranteed to win.”

“That is very generous Lord Edmure,” the Sparrow replied.

The army camped overnight while the High Sparrow – or Septon Meribald – prepared to depart along with his followers. Many were not septons themselves and would not be eligible to vote, but simply accompanied him to King’s Landing as a show of loyalty. The High Septon Edmure had arrived with – or Septon Ollidor now – raged at Edmure about the breach of tradition and disobeying the will of the Seven. Edmure paid him little mind.

The following day the army departed back to King’s Landing. They passed south of the God’s Eye and followed the Blackwater Rush, reaching King’s Landing before the month’s end. As they entered the city, Edmure saw they had already made significant progress rebuilding it.

As the army rode through the street, Edmure’s eyes fell upon a new building. It was made of red stone, with fires lit in its towers even though it was midday. Men and women in red robes were welcoming in visitors.

Edmure rode over to a passing woman walking down the street and pointed at the building. “Excuse me, could you tell me what that building is?”

The woman looked at the building with apprehension. “That’s the red temple, m’lord. Red priests light fires there and say their prayers to the fire god. They preach every day now, and more and more people show up to hear them talk about their god. The Lord of Light, they call him.”

Edmure felt his stomach sink as he stared at the temple. This was not good.


	5. Samwell I

For the first time in his life, Samwell Tarly felt he had grown tired of reading.

He’d been reading for a good fourteen hours so far today, and fifteen hours the day before that. Yesterday he had read books on medicine and today he had focused on history. Tomorrow he had a council meeting, but he could still hopefully squeeze in a good eight hours of reading about warfare.

It wouldn’t be enough. It would never be enough. At the age of twenty two, Sam had been appointed the youngest Grand Maester in the history of the Citadel. When King Brandon had bestowed the role on him, Sam had been sick with dread. He had always wanted to be a maester since he was a child, but this was too much, too soon. From the moment King Brandon gave the command, Sam had been certain that he would fail.

He had only studied at the citadel for a matter of months before he’d learned the truth about Jon and left for Winterfell, and he hadn’t returned to Oldtown since. Sam had always loved learning, but he had never earned a single link in his maester’s chain. Those took years to earn, and he simply hadn’t had time. Now he was expected to be the most prominent source of wisdom to the King of the Six Kingdoms, and Sam found he simply didn’t know enough.

Asking for help was out of the question. Though a number of maesters were in attendance at the Red Keep and many more visited the capital alongside the lords they served, each one he’d met had ignored him at best and despised him at worst. Sam had dealt with bullying at Horn Hill and the Night’s Watch, but with these maesters it was hard not to see the reason behind their contempt. Many of them were at least twice Sam’s age, and doubtless thought they were more qualified to serve as Grand Maester than some green boy from Horn Hill. And there was certainly truth to that.

The unusual way Sam had been named Grand Maester didn’t help matters. The Grand Maester had been chosen by the Conclave since the time of Aegon the Conqueror. It was the only position on the Small Council not named by the King, and was meant to signify the important role the maesters played in the history of Westeros. But King Brandon had wanted councilors he could trust, and so he had insisted that Jon’s best friend be named to the role. The Conclave had protested furiously but ultimately had no choice but to comply. The Citadel had no standing army, and could not openly defy the throne. But the maesters played a supporting but crucial role in the governance of the realm, and antagonizing them could have consequences. Sam thought back to what that strange Archmaester – Marwyn the Mage – had told him about the maesters when he’d first arrived at the Citadel. That bit about the Targaryens’ dragons. He shuddered and tried to push it from his mind.

Despite all the reasons for the maesters’ contempt, bearing the brunt of it regularly still hurt. Growing up in Horn Hill Sam had always thought that becoming a maester could let him do what he was good at with people who shared his interests. Now he finally had that chance, only to find everyone hated him for it.

It would have been so much easier if Gilly and the children had been there. And for a moment Sam felt a deep pang of longing, and shut the book. Now he was sure he wouldn’t get any more reading done tonight. He stared out the window of the Red Keep’s library and watched the light snowfall outside. He doubted it was snowing where Gilly was now.  
Sam understood the reasons, but he still didn’t think he’d ever entirely forgive Tyrion for his decision. Less than a fortnight after Sam had been named Grand Maester, Tyrion visited Sam in his quarters.

“Word has spread among the court that the new Grand Maester is living openly with a mistress,” Tyrion Lannister had explained. “A wildling mistress, no less.”

Sam had looked at Tyrion with confusion and hurt. “Bronn frequents brothels most nights. My predecessor Grand Maester Pycelle did as well, if half the stories about him are true. Even you had a mistress during your first turn as Hand of the King.”

Tyrion had not looked pleased by that, but had remained calm. “They – we – were all discrete. I don’t want to do this to you, but there isn’t another option. You’ll have to give the girl up. The Six Kingdoms are unstable, and it would reflect poorly on His Grace if the new Grand Maester – the youngest of his kind – were to live openly with a wildling. It draws unwanted attention to your status as a former member of the Night’s Watch as well. Perhaps if you used some discretion…”

“I love Gilly,” Sam had replied. “I won’t abandon her. Half the maesters of the Citadel broke their vows of chastity, and half the brothers of the Night’s Watch did too.”

Tyrion had looked genuinely pained then. “I understand your position, Grand Maester Samwell. Better than most, I understand it. But the girl is carrying your unborn child, and has already sired one child by her own father. The scandal will be inevitable, and a scandal is the last thing the crown can afford right now.”

“So Gilly’s to blame for that?” Sam had replied. “What do you intend to do with her, ship her across the Narrow Sea?"

“No,” Tyrion had replied surprisingly firmly. “I am not your enemy in this. And as it happens, I have a compromise. You know the succession at Horn Hill is in dispute. Your father and brother are dead, and your sisters are all married off. I have spoken with King Brandon, and he has agreed to legitimize your unborn child as the next Lord or Lady of Horn Hill. Gilly will be sent to Horn Hill to live in comfort as the mother of a lord. Your blood will continue House Tarly, and Gilly will want for nothing.”

“She’ll be a stranger in a land she knows nothing about,” Sam had replied.

Tyrion had sighed. “As I said, it’s a compromise.”

And that had been that. Gilly had departed under the cover of night not three days later. Sam had assured her that his mother would look after her and the children, but she had wept all the same. Sam hoped that his mother and Gilly might provide each other some comfort. When Lord Alekyne Florent had visited King’s Landing to pledge fealty to King Brandon, he had confessed to Sam that the death of her husband and second son had shattered Melessa Tarly. Sam hoped that the prospect of a new grandchild might help his mother overcome some of her grief.

And now four months had passed, and Sam had heard nothing from Horn Hill. Gilly had attempted to learn to read throughout their travels, but wasn’t fully literate yet by any means. Sam still sent ravens constantly to Horn Hill, hoping his mother or the castle steward would help Gilly read his letters and respond, but so far he’d received no reply. Most of Sam’s ravens to his mother also went unanswered… though two weeks ago he’d received a brief reply from Melessa Tarly informing him that all was well, and Gilly and the children were healthy. She hadn’t written anything else. So that meant things were alright… he supposed.

'Perhaps she’s found someone else,' said a nasty voice at the back of his head. It sounded faintly like his father. 'A handsome young lord, nothing like you. And your poor old mother won’t tell you for fear of breaking your heart. Did you really expect Gilly to never love again, and grow old and grey reminiscing on your sad doomed love affair?'

Sam shook his head, and tried to focus on something else. He had already lost his place reading history, but perhaps he could focus his time on something else. He picked up a book on economics – a ponderous tome by Archmaester Cetheres titled A History of Misuse of Finance in Westeros and Beyond – and began to read.

The history of the Rogare Bank serves as a cautionary tale of bank failure, and an example of the cutthroat world of politics in King’s Landing and the Free Cities. The origins of the bank’s failure can be traced to Lysaro Rogare, who used his influential position in the court of King Aegon III to embezzle funds from the royal treasury for his own use. His embezzlement weakened the reputation of the Rogare Bank and led to a bank run, facilitating the bank’s collapse. A favorite tactic of Lysaro Rogare was to embezzle funds from public works projects intended to rebuild homes destroyed in the Dance of the Dragons. Lysaro hired sellswords out of work after the war to ensure the homes were built as cheaply as possible while he and his friends made off with the profits. The new homes inevitably collapsed during a snowstorm and dozens of smallfolk were killed.

Sam closed the book again and blinked. Out of work sellswords… there was something familiar about that. Had he read this book before? He skimmed a few more pages and they looked unfamiliar. But there was something about that story that he’d heard before. Had Tyrion mentioned it during a council meeting or…?

A council meeting – that was it. The very same plan had been proposed in a council meeting – hiring out of work sellswords to rebuild homes destroyed in the Fall of King’s Landing. And while Sam’s increasing exhaustion meant that many of the small council meetings had started to bleed together, he distinctly remembered that plan being proposed and implemented by the King’s Master of Coin, Lord Bronn of the Blackwater.

Sam tapped his hands on the closed book. Surely he was just being paranoid. Bronn was Tyrion’s close friend, and was already one of the wealthiest lords in Westeros as Lord of Highgarden. King Brandon had given him everything – why would Bronn betray him for a little extra gold?

Sam tried to resume reading, but he couldn’t regain his focus. The suspicion kept gnawing away at the back of his mind. Bronn was still away with Lady Commander Brienne securing the Reach against the Dothraki. Tyrion had informed the council that they had won the battle and were returning to King’s Landing, but they weren’t due back for another two days. If Sam wanted to investigate, now was the time to do it.

Sam left the library, and crossed the Red Keep towards Bronn’s quarters. It was late at night by now, and the Red Keep was nearly deserted. A single guard was posted outside Bronn’s quarters. When Sam informed him he was there on King Brandon’s business, the guard shrugged and allowed him inside. He wasn’t about to question the new Grand Maester.

Sam immediately began searching the room. He looked through cabinets, wardrobes, and finally turned his eye to Bronn’s large oak writing desk. He opened a drawer and began searching. In the bottom drawer beneath a half empty wine bottle, he found it.

A History of Misuse of Finance in Westeros and Beyond.

Sam gripped the heavy book in his hands. It wasn’t conclusive proof, but it was enough to start asking serious questions about Bronn’s conduct as Master of Coin. He would take the book to Tyrion in the morning, and they could begin an investigation before Bronn’s return to the capital.

“What are you doing in my quarters?” The calm, confident voice of Lord Bronn of the Blackwater caused Sam to let out a cry and almost drop the book on his foot.

“You’re – you’re not…” Sam took a step backwards in shock. “You’re not supposed to be back for two days.”

Bronn gave Sam a confused smirk. “Not quite the cunning mind I expected from our new Grand Maester. I returned with Lady Commander Brienne this morning – Tyrion held a feast today to celebrate our victory. It was quite the celebration – I won a drinking contest against Strongboar Crakehall and some Florent girl kept flirting with Tyrion. I hadn’t noticed you missed it, now that I think of it. Did Tyrion simply not invite you or… look at yourself, have you slept?”

Sam ran his fingers through his hair and tried to think. Bronn and the army were due back in two days… weren’t they? He felt a pit in his stomach. He’d lost track of the date.

“Perhaps there are more pressing questions,” Bronn continued. “Questions about why you’re in my quarters at this hour, rifling through my things. Are you looking to steal from me? I am a wealthy man now so I suppose that’s to be expected, though I never pictured you as the thieving type. Are Grand Maesters paid so poorly?”

“Why were you reading this?” Sam waved the book at Bronn.

“It’s a book on economics, and I serve the King as Master of Coin,” Bronn replied dryly. “I invite you to solve that riddle, Grand Maester Samwell.”

“It’s a book on embezzlement,” Sam insisted. “And some of the crimes it details are alarmingly similar to actions you’re now taking as Master of Coin.”

“If you’re accusing me then accuse me,” Bronn glared at Sam. “If you’re going to steal into my chambers at night and wave around accusations, at least have the courage to say what you mean to my face.”

“I think you’re stealing money from the royal treasury.” Sam’s voice was calm, but his heart was hammering.

Bronn looked coldly at Sam. “I’ve returned home after winning a great battle for the King and you’re accusing me of treason. That’s quite the accusation. I’ve killed men for less than that.”

Sam could feel himself start to tremble, and he forced himself to stop. He was no longer the frightened boy at Horn Hill living in fear of his father. He’d killed a White Walker, he’d stood up to his father, he’d fought in the War for the Dawn and now he was on King Brandon’s council, appointed by the King himself.

“You can’t talk to me that way,” said Sam. “I’m going to Tyrion and the King tomorrow with this information and it’ll be up to them what to do with it.”

He moved towards the door, but Bronn was quicker than he expected. Bronn moved between Sam and the door and gave Sam a gruesome look. He was holding something in his hand that Sam couldn’t quite make out in the dark, but it looked sharp.

“You seem to have forgotten a few crucial matters,” Bronn’s voice was still quiet but any trace of warmth was gone. “Perhaps that’s to be expected from a Grand Maester barely out of his swaddling clothes. Allow me to remind you. While you may have earned your council position by virtue of playing squire to the king’s bastard brother, I earned everything I have today. Even that book you’re holding – I had to teach myself to read it when I got this job, some maester never tutored me as a child. And as it happens, one other thing I’ve earned is the title of Lord Paramount of the Reach.”

Bronn stepped forward and looked at Sam with dead eyes. There was no mercy to be found in there. “The Lord Paramount of the Reach is charged with protecting his vassals. And unless I’m mistaken, one of those vassals is your unborn bastard with some wildling girl. It would be a pity if I were so caught up in embezzlement charges that I couldn’t extend my protection to that particular vassal. The world can be a very dangerous place.”

Bronn extended his dagger and poked Sam very lightly in the stomach with it. Sam gave out a small cry. Whatever bravery he had was now deserting him, and he could only think of his father. Finally he managed to speak.

“Why… why are you doing this? King Brandon gave you everything. You’re the second wealthiest lord in the Six Kingdoms.”

Bronn smirked. “I certainly am. And if you know anything Grand Maester, you’ll know that the wealth of the Reach is surpassed only by the wealth of the Westerlands. The thing is, the Westerlands were hit hard by the War of Five Kings. With the right investments and a little help from the royal treasury, I see no reason why my wealth can’t surpass that of the Lannisters in just a few years. And personally, I’d love to see the look on Tyrion’s face when that happens.”

Bronn gave a dark laugh. “I don’t expect we’ll need to discuss this matter again.” Bronn took the book from Sam, who barely resisted. “Get out of my chambers.”

Slowly, stammering, Sam left Bronn’s quarters. He rounded the corner and collapsed against the wall. His heart was hammering so hard he felt it might burst.

'You failed the King,' the voice in his head said. 'What sort of Grand Maester does that? You haven’t changed at all, you’re still the same scared boy you were when you met Jon at the Wall. No wonder Gilly’s likely forgotten you.'

Sam took a few moments until his heart stopped racing. Then he got to his feet, cleared his throat and began to walk sadly back towards the library. There was plenty more reading for him to do, and plenty more to learn. 

He could do that, at least.


End file.
